


Why Scarves Are Useful

by phoenix089



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century
Genre: A horny Sherlock is dangerous to ones health, But he likes the results, Jealousy, John is naked. Sherlock? Not so much, John really ought to learn not to irritate Sherlock when he's jealous, Love Bites, M/M, Possessiveness, Possessiveness like Woah, Rough Sex, Sherlock is a sexy jerk, Sherlock likes to keep his coat on, Smut, That are really just a way to say 'Mine', Wall Sex, marking territory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:22:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenix089/pseuds/phoenix089
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had never been one to share, but that didn't seem to dissuade the world from flirting with that which was rightfully his. So, Sherlock decides that it's time to leave some undeniable evidence that John Watson is his. He'll leave it so thoroughly, John will need a scarf to hide the marks Sherlock leaves behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Scarves Are Useful

**Author's Note:**

> I'd say "I can't believe I'm writing this", or try to say I wrote it for someone ... But, really, I just wrote this because I seriously needed to see some Wallsex. Hopefully, you can enjoy the smut as well <3
> 
> Big thanks and huggles to my good friend Ile who helped me out by reading over this and flailing at all the right moments ♥♥

Patience. It wasn’t something he had been known to have. _Ever_. Mycroft could certainly attest to that. Which was why it was surprising that it took as long as it did for his patience to snap. When it did however …

Sherlock fixed his unforgiving gaze on the conventionally attractive blonde that had been flirting with _his John for the past ten minutes. “ _If__ you’re quite finished,” he hissed, and, though John was frowning at him warningly from the other side of the table, he went on to add, “I believe your cats are waiting for you at home. Oh, and you may want to give your boyfriend a call. Three out of town conferences in the past month? And, you believed that? Really?”

The waitress drew herself up to full height, an enraged blush spreading across her cheeks, but she never had a chance to respond to Sherlock’s deductions – As if he cared what she’d say to try and deny it – Because in the next second, Sherlock had snatched up John’s hand and was tugging him out of the restaurant, completely ignoring the shorter man’s confused protests.

As he pulled John along, Sherlock glared at anyone who so much as looked their way. This was a feeling he was becoming all too accustomed to, and that was quite possibly only making his reaction worse. The fact that he was becoming _used_ to feeling anything at all was irritating in itself. He had always understood that jealousy was a powerful motivator – One of the top three causes behind murders, in fact – But he had never fully understood it until recently. It was typical that he would come to understand it through John.

“Sherlock?” John asked in a clearly bewildered tone as he struggled to keep up with Sherlock’s frenzied pace, but Sherlock paid it no mind. He simply tightened his already firm grip on John’s hand and continued to sweep his way through the streets of London.

He didn’t release John’s hand until they were safely ensconced in their apartment, and even then it was only so that he could jerk his scarf off from around his neck. _Why_. Why did the world insist on flirting with what was oh-so-obviously his? The media had all but _jumped_ on them the first time they were caught in public holding hands– An oversight on Sherlock’s behalf. He’d underestimated the media’s desperation. Hadn’t even questioned the way that John slid his hand into Sherlock’s, the feel of John’s calloused hand within his own had barely even made a ripple in his thoughts because it had become natural for them to do so whenever they were hidden away from prying eyes . Yet, vapid, infuriating, boring, women _still_ insisted on flirting with his John Watson. What did Sherlock have to do to make them back the fuck _off_?

Sherlock’s gaze flicked over to John. The other man was pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, but his mouth is pulled up at the corners, and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the sight. John was _amused_. Unacceptable.

His body moving before his mind could fully examine all possible outcomes, Sherlock stalked forward, a barely-repressed growl vibrating against the back of his throat as he disregarded John’s now uncertain “Sherlock?” and trapped the smaller man against the wall, his arms forming a cage on either side of him.

John barely even reacted to a clearly incensed Sherlock broaching his personal space. He simply returned Sherlock’s steady gaze, just … Waiting. He didn’t even press himself back into the wall, and that quiet strength was just one of the little quirks of John that Sherlock had come to adore, and, with time, love.

For a few seconds, Sherlock just continued to stare, drinking in every subtle movement of John’s eyes, his cheeks, discerning his thoughts before John had even fully formed them. He watched with fascination as the artery in John’s neck pulsed with his increased heart rate – The sole indication that John was affected by his proximity at all.

But then John’s tongue darted out to lick at his lips, and Sherlock chased it, pressing his mouth to John’s almost desperately, seeking out that elusive tongue with his own. Bewildering, the effect that being in close contact with your sexual partner could do for ones libido.

Had it been anybody else, Sherlock might have been disgusted at the frantic way his hands came to rip at the collar of John’s shirt, pulling at the fabric harshly enough that several of the buttons flew loose - Some distant part of his mind counted four as they went skittering across the floorboards – But, John had this uncanny ability to reacquaint Sherlock with his humanity, and the carnal wants that came with it.

“Sherlock!” John admonished, even as he allowed Sherlock to ease the shirt off his shoulders, “I _liked_ this shirt.” 

This was of those things that John said that Sherlock never fully understood – What did liking a shirt have to do with anything? Mrs. Hudson could easily sew the buttons back on. So, Sherlock didn’t bother to respond. He simply ducked his head and dragged his nose down along the underside of John’s jaw. He wasn’t able to smother the need to inhale as he did so, taking in that musk that was uniquely John. It was absurd, the reaction that he had to the scent. He might have to look into subconscious reactions to particular scents. Could prove to be a remotely interesting experiment. 

But, at this moment, he had more important things to focus on. Like the way that John allowed a breathy sigh to escape his throat as Sherlock just barely brushed his parted lips to the junction where neck met shoulder. The breathy sigh turned into an almost groan as Sherlock began to suck and bite at the skin, encouraging a bruise to form.

“I hope,” John ground out, “That you’re keeping in mind that I need to be able to cover those.”

No. The ability to hide Sherlock’s mark was not the desired effect. Not the desired outcome at _all_. 

With something that resembled a snarl, Sherlock took hold of John’s hips and forced him back so that he was firmly pressed to the wall. Holding him in place with his hips, Sherlock took hold of the fine hairs at the nape of John’s neck, before none-too-gently pulling so that more of his neck was exposed. John hissed at the rough handling, but then Sherlock swiped his tongue over the skin just beneath John’s jawbone, almost defiantly, before he sucked and worried at the skin with his teeth, working on a mark dark enough that it would take _weeks_ to completely fade … If Sherlock allowed it.

“Possessive git,” John breathed even as he brought a hand up to thread through Sherlock’s tangled locks, his lips quirking up with amusement. Sherlock bit down on his collarbone a little harsher than necessary in retaliation. Slowly, he worked his way back up to the opposite side of John’s neck, taking extra care to lick and bite on his way.

“You are _mine_ ,” Sherlock informed the other man once he was close enough to breathe the words into his ear before taking the shell of John’s ear between his lips and trail his tongue along it, only to smirk as John shuddered beneath his hands, the other mans’ hands coming up to grip at Sherlock’s shoulders.

A purely primal satisfaction trickled down Sherlock’s spine as he took in the ravaged mess that John’s neck had become. Cover _that_ up indeed. John would need a scarf to hide the amount of hickey’s Sherlock had given him, and, much to Sherlock’s delight, out of the two in the room, _John_ wasn’t the one who owned a scarf. He would surely be scolded later for the abundance of love bites, but, right then, Sherlock didn’t particularly care. Let the world see with irrefutable evidence that John was _his_.

Finally satisfied with his work, Sherlock followed the insistent pull of John’s hands at the base his neck, and allowed himself to be steered into a proper kiss. As lips melded, and tongues tangled, Sherlock brought a hand up to rest on John’s chest, and slowly, tantalizingly, trailed his fingertips lower. He skated over the planes of John’s chest, and brushed across ribs, until his fingers came to a rest just beneath the other man’s belly button.

For a moment, John gasped into their kiss, and then, abruptly, he pulled back to hiss, “Sherlock – I swear, if you don’t stop _teasing_ …” Sherlock simply smirked at the words.

“You’ll _what_ , John?” he asked as he lay his hand flat on John’s stomach. He smirked to himself as the muscles there fluttered beneath his touch, at the way that John’s breath hitched in his throat at the feel.

“I’m waiting,” Sherlock pressed, the tip of his pinky and ring finger shifting to dip beneath the waistband of John’s jeans. 

“Fucking hell,” John growled, head falling back to the wall with a dull thump. “I’ll flirt with every goddamn woman I so much as make eye contact with for the rest of the week.”

Of all the responses John could have made, this was not one Sherlock had been expecting. The very _thought_ had him snarling like an angered cat before he pushed John into the wall insistently as he took hold of his wrists and pinned them to the wall above his head, all but attacking the Ex-Soldier’s mouth with his own, nipping at his lower lip a touch more forcefully than usual before thrusting his tongue inside. At the appreciative moan that John gave from the friction though, Sherlock suspected that was precisely what John had been aiming for. 

Still growling in the back of his throat, Sherlock shifted so that he could hold John’s wrists with one hand, and slid the other between their bodies, pressing the searching hand against John’s growing arousal. He smirked – a touch vindictively – As the other instinctively bucked into the feel.

“You are _mine_ ,” Sherlock repeated as he impatiently unbuttoned John’s jeans and tugged down the fly, jerking both jeans and pants down so that they pooled down around John’s ankles. Barely even giving John time to adjust to the feel of the air on his suddenly exposed prick, Sherlock took hold of it from the base and gave the engorged muscle a slow, teasing tug.

“Fuck Sherlock, just - buggering fuck,” John snarled breathlessly, wrists shifting beneath Sherlock’s restraining hold. Grinning wolfishly against John’s lips, Sherlock pressed his hand onto John’s wrist firmly, ensuring he couldn’t break free, and continued to leisurely pump his cock with the other, ducking his head so that he could darken those love bites just a little more.

He doesn’t stop until he can hear the laboured pants above him – The ones that Sherlock recognises to be John’s _Holy shit, I’m so close_ pants. Unacceptable. Sherlock isn’t satisfied with the course of events yet.

When he stops, it’s so abrupt that John actually whimpers, and Sherlock smirks at the sound. But then he leaves John panting against the wall, and wanders into the longue room, searching. He knows he put one around here somewhere…

“Sherlock,” John groans, still breathless and leaning against the wall for support as he attempts to gain control over himself. “What – are – you – _doing_?”

Locating the tube he was looking for – Hidden surreptitiously beneath the coffee table. He really ought to have a word with Mrs. Hudson about tidying the flat up while they’re out - Sherlock snatches it up and returns to John. The sight of his partner still clutching at the wall for support, a healthy blush spread across his cheeks, with mildly-laboured pants still issuing from his mouth, his neck and part of his chest _covered_ with marks made by Sherlock’s own mouth… Well, any blood that hadn’t _already_ flooded south by now certainly headed that direction now.

Some strange mix of a purr and a growl issued itself out of Sherlock’s mouth as he swooped down to fasten his mouth to John’s once more. The next second, Sherlock had moved both his hands to the back of John’s thighs and _tugged_ so that John’s only options were to fall, or wrap his legs around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock did purr as John went with the latter option, allowing the Consultant Detective to take hold of his hips, and angle his own to press John back into the wall with just a little bit more force. And then Sherlock rolled his hips, effectively rubbing his still-clothed erection against John’s, and both of them hissed at the friction.

“Sherlock,” John muttered, burying his head into the crook of Sherlock’s shoulder as the other set a grinding rhythm, “Shouldn’t we – Nnngh – Move this – Haaah – Elsewhere??”

“Here is perfectly fine,” he replied, the same primal tingle from before flaring up at the idea of taking John _here_ , against the wall. Yes. Here would do just nicely.

Still rutting up against John, encouraging the other to gasp and hiss into his shoulder, Sherlock reached into his pocket and retrieved the tube he’d stowed there. With practised precision, he skilfully uncapped it and coated his fingers with the lubricant.

And then he was trailing them up along the cleft of John’s arse, and if he was not otherwise preoccupied with a lusty haze, Sherlock might have been amused by the way that John yelped “Seriously, Sherlock? _Here_?!”

“Absolutely,” Sherlock hummed, licking a trail up John’s neck to his ear as his finger continued to slide along the crevice. “That way, when _anybody_ walks into the room,” his searching finger had begun tracing around the puckered hole now, and Sherlock was smirking in a positively wolfish manner as John trembled against the touch, “You’ll be reminded that I took you,” He eased one finger past the entrance, inching it inside, working on locating that bundle of nerves that always reduced John to a panting mess,” Right,” Sherlock bit down on the side of John’s neck, darkening one of the marks even _more_ , and John hissed out, his hands digging into the back of Sherlock’s neck, “Here.”

Oh. And there it was, because John’s hips jerked forward suddenly, and as Sherlock dragged his finger back, John let loose a litany of “Fuck. Buggering fuck. Shit. Fuck.”

Nudging at John’s ear with his nose, Sherlock managed to coax his partner into a deep, soul-searing kiss as he slowly worked a second finger inside, scissoring his fingers as he went. He could feel John shuddering from his ministrations, and Sherlock always underestimated the amount of satisfaction he’d feel – Knowing that it was because of _him_ , the supposedly soulless Sherlock Holmes, that John was trembling with pleasure.

John only lasted a few more moments before he snarled, “Jesus Sherlock. Now!”

Ever obliging (when it came to John), Sherlock removed his hands with a smirk that made John butt his head softly and mutter, “Jackass”. Rolling his eyes at the half-hearted insult, Sherlock unclasped his belt buckle, and tugged his trousers and pants low enough that it freed him.

Sherlock only paused to draw John into another kiss as he coated his cock with the lube, and then he was positioning himself, one hand bracing himself against the wall, and the other caressing John’s backside tenderly.

But, Sherlock held back. He waited. And waited, the head of his cock right _there_ at John’s entrance, but not pushing in. Not yet.

“Sherlock,” John hissed, pulling out of the kiss to glare down at him.

“Yes, John?” Sherlock asked, his eyebrow arching, and the corners of his mouth twitched despite his best efforts.

“ _Move_.”

“Momentarily,” he said, a full blown smirk on his lips now, and John’s head fell back so that it thumped against the wall.

“What are you _waiting_ for?” he growled out, and Sherlock gave that wolfish grin before stretching up, trying to ignore the way that John’s muscles fluttered as if trying to coax him inside, until his lips were up against John’s ear.

“Answer me one thing, and I will fuck you into oblivion,” he breathed, and John shuddered beneath him ,a breathy gasp leaving him even as he ground out what Sherlock was sure was meant to be a snarled, “What?”

“Whose are you John?” Sherlock asked, his lips so close to John’s ear that his mouth brushed the flesh with each movement.

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me Sherlock? _Now?_ ”

“Whose John?” he pushed, allowing just the head to broach the stretched hole – And, Christ, he shouldn’t have done that, because even he had limits of what he could take before losing control – Before pulling back out so that he was tantalisingly close again.

Thankfully, John was closer to that breaking point, because he gave a guttural growl before snarling, “ _Yours_. Fuck. I, John Watson, am Sherlock Holmes’ in every _goddamned_ sense of the _word_. Now _fuck_ me you absolute –”

What Sherlock was, he didn’t hear – He was fairly sure it was some form of Wanker though – because he chose that moment to fully sheathe himself in John, and – Holy shit – He would never get used to those first moments, to the tightness and _warmth_ of John enclosing him. It brought a shudder out of him, and the hand that had been resting on John’s arse was slammed into the wall as Sherlock fought to regain his senses. Fought off the stars that were dancing on the edge of his vision.

“Sherlock,” John gasped, and Sherlock could only hum a question at him, “ _Move_.”

And move Sherlock did. He pulled his hips back far enough that he almost completely pulled out, before reversing the direction and driving back into John. John’s fingers were tight in his hair, and there were nails digging into his shoulder, and it was that alone which kept Sherlock in control of his mind enough to remember to thrust to a _rhythm_ instead of just pistoning back and forth into that heat.

As the slap of skin against skin became a touch more erratic, as John’s hisses and gasps turned into heady pants - pants that were sometimes inarticulate cries, and others definite, albeit broken, moans of “Sherlock!” – Sherlock brought a hand down to grasp at John’s dick again, and pumped to the rhythm of his thrusts. With each thrust, John bounced up the wall a little, and their lips brushed for that mere millisecond, both too busy sucking as much air into their lungs as possible to be able to kiss, but wanting the closeness all the same. The room smelled of sex and sweat and John, and Sherlock hoped that John wouldn’t want to air it out, because _he_ rather liked the smell of his and John’s coupling hanging in the air.

It took another, one, two, three pump-thrusts before John’s legs clenched around Sherlock’s hips almost painfully, and his nails dragged down Sherlock’s back harsh enough to break the skin as he came. Two thrusts later, Sherlock buried his face into the junction of John’s shoulder, and sucked at the flesh as he rode out his release.

The two of them remained like that for a few moments, Sherlock leaning against John since his legs were shaking a little from the effort of standing this whole time, the two focusing on regulating their breathing as they came down from their post-orgasmic haze.

Eventually, Sherlock pulled back slightly to place another kiss on John’s lips, the other’s mouth curled into a sated smile.

Seconds later, John frowned and pushed on Sherlock’s shoulder to make him pull back. Sherlock frowned in protest – He wasn’t finished kissing John yet. How rude of him to interrupt. John’s eyes flicked from the coat still hanging off Sherlock’s shoulders, to the still-buttoned up shirt, and the trousers that were hanging half-way down his thighs.

“You git! You didn’t undress at _all_! And here I am, as bare as a newborn babe!”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, nuzzling into John’s neck, kissing the pulsating artery there. 

John sighed and trailed his hand through Sherlock’s hair, “And you’re an idiot,” he continued, which made Sherlock pull back enough to arch a curious eyebrow, “A possessive idiot at that. All this because some woman flirted with me? Never come to the clinic.”

Scowling, Sherlock stepped back, and the only reason John didn’t suddenly fall to the floor was because Sherlock was still holding his rear in his hands, which he released the instant John’s feet were on the floor.

Instead of looking contrite, John laughed at Sherlock’s reaction. “Definitely a possessive idiot,” he murmured as he stepped into Sherlock’s space and stretched up to press his lips just under Sherlock’s jaw.

Sherlock’s eyes semi-closed at the feel, and he almost allowed John to leave a mark of his own – Sherlock had ravaged his neck enough to allow for _one_ mark on his own. Except his text alert went off the very moment that John’s lips parted.

With narrowed eyes, Sherlock stepped away from John and fixed his clothing. “Text from Lestrade,” he said, choosing to ignore John’s incredulous expression. “Potentially interesting. Well, come along John, we haven’t all night.”

Were he not otherwise distracted grilling Lestrade for information, Sherlock may have laughed at John’s irritated grumbling as he stormed off to the bathroom to rid himself of the drying come and sweat.

When the two arrived at the crime scene half an hour later, all the regulars raised their eyebrows with mild confusion, only to decide that maybe they actually didn’t care, and neither did they _want_ to know, why Watson had the Freak’s scarf wrapped around his neck, a deep blush on his cheeks. Definitely not information they wanted to be privy to, though the smirk that the Freak wore left little to the imagination.


End file.
